Memories of Frank Yates Chapter 13

Memories of Frank Yates CHAPTER 13

Mr Robertson and I carried on our mini firing camp duties for about 10 days, based on the hutted Catfoss. After the morning’s firing we would usually head up to Brid, for lunch and to see if we could find a pub that had some cigarettes under the counter. At this period of the war, cigarettes were in very short supply and smokers, which meant just about everybody, wasted a lot of time running them down to earth. One of the most reliable sources was a Salvation Army canteen, to be found near large camps and railway stations.
During our stay at Catfoss, a training station, we noticed that like Topcliffe, there were a lot of accidents, particularly in the dark. On one night a flight of three Blenheims set out on a navigation exercise over the North Sea, and after a fog descended, no one saw them again.
On our trips up the coastal road we saw the new airfield at Lissett, south of Bridlington, under construction. It had concrete runways and very widespread buildings, as Lissett now took on the dubious distinction of being nearer to Germany than any other station, taking over that honour from Driffield, It was ready to receive the Squadrons from Catfoss and it seems that we were asked to move, because of the upheaval.
The next place of rest, for our two-man caravansary, was a camp, on the cliff top, 4 miles south of Hornsea, its postal address being the YMCA Camp, Mapleton, Hornsea. Before the war it had been a holiday camp for needy youngsters and was ideally sited, with two football pitches between the buildings and the crumbling cliffs, which gave access to a sandy beach. There were three table tennis tables in the main hall, left over from the YMCA days, and I had never seen such skilled players.
As we entertained our gun teams for only a few hours daily, we had plenty of free time, but could not spare, or justify the use of petrol to go to Bridlington. There was a good bus service to Hornsea and some of us would go in to the pictures. Apart from pubs, Hornsea had little to offer, except a large lake, called the “Mere”. On the day of departure I had to wait for a train to Sheffield, and, to fill in an hour, I hired a rowing boat, never having rowed before. I knew that you had to sit with your back to the sharp end, and I soon got the hang of it. A strong breeze was blowing against me and I got tired, without much progress, so after a while I gave up the struggle and let the wind blow me back to the landing stage.
During this short stay at Mapleton we found, one day, that the beach was littered with hundreds of round tins, each containing 50 Players cigarettes. Many unexpected riches were to be found, when beachcombing, debris from sunken ships, but here, indeed, was a treasure trove!
When we had collected as many tins as we could carry back to the huts, a great disappointment awaited us; every one of them was contaminated with sea water, even though the tin lids were soldered on.
After a few days leave, I received a telegram, directing me to report to Church Fenton, yet another pre war airfield this time equipped with Beaufighter night fighter squadrons. I was to take over a gun site to relieve the sergeant, who had broken his leg and was in hospital. There was a Beaufighter dispersed within yards of our hut and it looked a very formidable beast, with its short nose bristling with cannon muzzles and complicated radio antenna, and its dull black paint. Aircraft were usually started by means of an “Urge Box”, a trolley, carrying large batteries and a generator. This was plugged into a socket on the plane and saved the in board batteries.
Distressingly, an aircraftman, while plugging in the urge box to the port engine, forgetfully walked into the starboard propeller which had been started. The aircraft was taken away to a hangar, presumably to be washed and a new propeller fitted! Although I was at this site for just a fortnight, the stay was not without interest; one event still makes me smile, even after 64 years. One of the gunners, a bookie’s runner by trade, lived in York, ten minutes away by train, asked me if he could carry on the long standing arrangement of going home, after dark, returning the same night, or before first light, next morning. I agreed providing that he did not abuse the privilege.
A few mornings later, his bed was empty and I thought that he had overslept and he would soon be back. By 10am I had no choice but to report his absence to troop HQ. By seven, in the evening I was beginning to think that he had done a bunk, when he walked in looking a bit bedraggled. This is the gist of his tale; “Sorry, Sarge, I caught the 6.15 from York and woke up at Temple Meads, Bristol, and I’ve been all b*****y day getting back.” The Troop Officer saw the funny side and simply stopped his nightly excursions for a few weeks! I don’t know whether the blokes thought that I was rich, or a soft touch, but I was often offered items for sale. I bought a superb HMV portable gramophone, for two pounds, and carried it around with me, for months, stocking up with records, chiefly the latest Bing Crosby offerings. Another purchase was a lovely Swan fountain pen with a 14 carat gold nib. I used it for years, losing it after the war. As the pen cost me two shillings and sixpence, I had had another good deal!
At the end of my Church Fenton stint, I managed a weekend in Sheffield and returned on the Sunday evening, Dec 7th. 1941, the date fixed in my mind, because the ticket collector told me of the attack on Pearl Harbour!
Back again to Driffield, but not for long. I was to become part of an instructional team, to be formed at Queensbury camp, in Bradford, to which I duly reported. Bradford, like Sheffield, is on the foothills of the Pennines, and very hilly. Queensbury was on the highest of the hills, reached by a tramcar, on a track, more suited to Switzerland than Yorkshire!
The camp was very large, even boasting a garrison theatre, where I saw a very good variety show, organised by ENSA, a body promoted to provide entertainment to service people, all over the World. I noticed, however, in the local press that Herman Darewski and his Orchestra were topping the bill at the “Alhambra”, so down the hill on the tram, to relive those old Bridlington memories.
Our team got together, a captain Connolly, the driver of a 15 cwt covered truck, myself, and, strangely enough, a Sgt. Davidson, the son of the notorious Rector of Stiffkey, reference to whom I made in an earlier chapter He forestalled my curiosity by telling me that his father had been a disaster, both to his mother and himself, when he was still at school and that he would be obliged if I would not mention the matter again. We realised that we had both been on an aircraft recognition competition at Church Fenton earlier in the year and got on very well together.
After discussions on our aims, we set off on our travels, Sgt Davidson and I, encumbered by a breech ring, a breech block, a loading tray, an auto loader, 2 clips of dummy shells, a buffer and other bits and pieces, provided, I think, by the REME unit at Queensbury. Our first stop was Hull, at the time, the most damaged place in the U.K, being temptingly close to the Luftwaffe airfields. There were countless acres of railway sidings with hundreds of burned out wagons which had once contained Scandinavian timber. Great damage had also been caused to the heart of the town, which was an easily found target, at the confluence of the Hull and the Humber.
We lived, in a large house on Anlaby Road, the HQ of our hosts. From there, we visited their 4 dockland sites, telling them of the latest developments, doing a spot of gun drill, discussing maintenance and talking about the mechanics of the gun and the “innards” of the ammunition. We even had a blackboard!
An interesting thing about my first visit to Kingston on Hull was the telephone system, All the rest of the U.K. had black telephones, using the GPO system, but Hull had white ‘phones, and a private system. I noticed that the 4 gun sites could be dialled directly, each having its own number. There was a good music shop, where I bought my first Crosby record; “I Cried for You” and “My Melancholy Baby” (Brunswick, six shillings.)! I soon had a fair collection of records, making me and my gramophone in demand.
Our next port of call was Scunthorpe, where the guns were sited round the great blast furnace installations of United Steel, English Steel, Lysaghts and Redbournes. The soil was very sandy and the gun sites had a strange remoteness about them. I was on one of these sites when an “ENSA” troop, of two men and two girls turned up to entertain the dozen men. While I loaded my Bofors bits and pieces into the truck, the entertainers rigged up a curtain across the corner of the hut and got changed behind it. They then sang, told jokes and tap danced in the close confines of a hut, with an audience of about 15!
Our last visit was to Church Fenton, once again, this time living at Troop HQ and eating in the RAF Sergeants’ Mess, I managed a weekend in Sheffield, before we returned to Bradford and then back to our Units.
Driffield was much the same and I settled down into the usual routine, as though I had been there all the time. We had a Coventry Climax generator, and in common with army vehicles, it had to be drained on winter nights, and refilled the next morning. Antifreeze was not used in the army; the ethylene glycol available being used exclusively in aircraft engines. I always did this job myself, to make sure it got done, the drain cocks, on the radiator and engine block were nice big brass taps, as was customary on pre war engines. I filled the thing with water, from an ewer, the army description of a large metal jug, looked underneath to make certain that taps were shut, and went to have a cup of tea while the engine warmed up, ready for “stand to”
When I came out to turn it off, it sounded odd, and no wonder, the iron engine block was glowing a dull red!! I turned off the ignition, and nothing happened, spark plugs being superfluous. The only way that I could stop it was to turn off the petrol at the tank. Even then it continued to run, using up the fuel in the float chamber, with me getting more and more agitated. When it finally stopped, I made another daft mistake, the first was not realising that the drain taps were not closed, but were plugged with ice, giving the impression of being shut. The second and daftest was to shut the taps and pour cold water into the filler. “WHOOSH”, a jet of steam shot out of the filler, removing my cap and sending it spinning yards away! The engine creaked and groaned as it cooled down, and I turned on the fuel, filled it with water and, saying a prayer, I cranked the starting handle. It started! Apart from the cylinder head paint looking a bit discoloured, all was normal. What a relief!

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